


The Problem With Peterborough

by DHW



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Dialogue-Only, F/M, Humor, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:02:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22164517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DHW/pseuds/DHW
Summary: “Last week you called it‘a snoozefest of apocalyptic proportions’, and then proceeded to mime your own death.”“I was bored.”“My point exactly.”
Relationships: Rupert Giles/Buffy Summers
Comments: 11
Kudos: 49





	The Problem With Peterborough

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Quaggy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quaggy/gifts).



“Budge up, Buffy.”

“Supplies?”

“I’ve got a gin and tonic for you. A pint of the second cheapest beer for me. And a packet of peanuts, also for me.”

“No chips?”

“Crisps. And no. They didn’t have any.”

“How can a bar not have chips?”

“Crisps.”

“Chips. Crisps. Whatever. Point is, there are none, which I’m sure is some sort of illegal here.”

“Oi!”

“Sharing is caring, Giles.”

“And stealing is stealing. I bought you a drink, so you can keep your paws off my nuts... O-off the nuts. No thieving. And besides, technically, I’ve bought you… four drinks. Five? Many. I've bought you many drinks this evening, so you can't whinge about the unavoidable lack of potato-based snacks.”

“That’s because you’re a gentleman.”

“Fool, more like.”

“Hey! Less of the complainage. I bought you dinner last week.”

“You bought me what might have been the world’s saddest kabab from that nasty little takeaway round the corner.”

“It wasn’t _that_ bad. It came with lettuce and what kinda looked like a tomato. Meat, veggies, carbs, msg—all your food groups in one convenient, greasy package.”

“It gave me food poisoning!”

“Like that was my fault!”

“ _I_ wanted to order in.”

“Still doesn’t make it my fault.”

“Oh, just drink your sodding drink.”

“Geez, what’s with you tonight? It’s like drinking with Oscar the Grouch, but with less trash-canyness. So what’s up? Drop your favourite axe inside a magic circle? Stub your toe on your weapons chest?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“Liar.”

“Buffy…”

“I’ll find out, eventually. You know I will. So, go on. Make with the ‘splainy.”

“If you must know, it’s my birthday.”

“And that’s a tragedy because…?”

“It’s my fiftieth.”

“The big five-oh. Nice… Or, you know, not so nice. Apparently.”

“Satisfied?”

“No.”

“Still, I would prefer it if we dropped the subject.”

“And what? Get back to the serious business of drinking?”

“I don’t know about you, but I plan to spend the first day of my fifth decade practically paralytic.”

“I suppose you want slayergirl over here to carry you home?”

“It could be your gift to me.”

“Spoiler alert, if you wanted a piggyback, you shouldn’t have bought me that fourth drink.”

“Fifth.”

“No, fourth. And you definitely shouldn’t have bought me the fifth, either.”

“Feeling the effects, are we?”

“As they say in Rome: yes.”

“I’m not sure they do say that in Rome.”

“Alright, _‘sì’_ , then.”

“In fact, I’m not sure they say anything in Rome. I mean, they speak Italian, obviously, but I’m not sure they actually _say_ anything. Specifically. Well, I mean, they do say things. Everyone says things. But I’m not sure they _say things_ say things. In a saying sort of way.”

“Somehow I don’t think I’m the only one feeling a little buzzed right now.”

“ _Sì._ ”

“So, what’s wrong with being fifty, anyhow?”

“Nothing, in theory.”

“But in practice?”

“Well, look at me. Fifty sodding years old and I’m living in a basement flat in Peterborough. Peterborough! The town that culture forgot. Living here is like watching paint dry on a concrete wall. In fact, no, it’s worse than that; it’s like watching a wall that was painted twenty years ago slowly give up on existence altogether.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“Last week you called it _‘a snoozefest of apocalyptic proportions’_ , and then proceeded to mime your own death.”

“I was bored.”

“My point exactly.”

“So, let’s do something fun.”

“I don’t think it’s physically possible to have fun in Peterborough. I believe there’s actually a law against it.”

“Law-shmaw. We’re fun people. We do fun things. We have… fun.”

“The repetition inspires such confidence.” 

“We could go out on a patrol. You like patrols; you get to lecture me _and_ criticise my technique at the same time. It’s a double-whammy of Watcher funsies.”

“It’s raining.”

“You like the rain.”

“Not in January, I don’t. I’m not insane.”

“We’ve got to go out in it some time. We can’t stay in the bar until it stops or we’ll be here until June.”

“I don’t see the problem. Food. Booze. Central heating. I’d say we’re relatively set for the long haul.”

“No chips, though.”

“Crisps. And no.”

“And an unbechipped Buffy is a sad Buffy.”

“Still…”

“We could compromise. Go back to your apartment, order in, watch a movie.”

“Can I choose the film?”

“It’s your birthday.”

“I want curry, not pizza. And I get to specify the takeaway place, this time.”

“Sure.”

“I don’t want food poisoning again.”

“Noted.”

“If you're planning on spending the night at mine, I’ll need to make up the spare bed.”

“Maybe not. Maybe we could… share?”

“Pardon?”

“You heard. You’re not that drunk, Giles.”

“Is this some sort of misguided attempt to cheer me up? I’m quite capable of having a one-man pity party by myself, thank you. And that’s not a euphemism, by the way.”

“One-hundred percent pity-free, guaranteed.” 

“Why now?”

“Not my fault you can’t take a hint.”

“You’ve been hinting?”

“For months.”

“Oh.”

“So? Wanna go home, get a pizza and see where the night takes us.”

“Curry. Not pizza.”

“Whatever. Get takeout. Snuggle up on the couch. Investigate your bedsheets.” 

“It does sound like it could be fun.” 

“Fun in Peterborough? I thought you said that was impossible.”

“Maybe I was overstating things a tad.”

“Yeah, maybe.”


End file.
